I’m a tattoo artist who earned her stripes through two apprenticeships. I did not arrive here by accident, nor by a straight road .Life led me through other rooms first — engineering, HR — before tattooing found me, gently but decisively, and asked me to stay.

I grew up in the company of makers. My mother. My grandmother. Women who worked with their hands and trusted their instincts. That inheritance never left me. Years later, a tattoo made in memory of my cat, Lucky, would quietly change the course of my life — a reminder that tattoos are not decoration, but vessels. They hold grief, love, memory. They remember for us.

Over sixteen years, the work accumulated. Thousands of tattoos, each belonging to a different body, a different moment, a different truth. No two the same. What stayed constant was the intention — to listen carefully, to work slowly, to make something that could endure.

This space exists for that reason. For connection. For thoughtfulness. For art that does not shout but stays. Not only on skin, but in memory — where the most meaningful things live.